


All The Shades of Truth

by RachelClark



Series: A Different Kind of Monster [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Transitioning, dubious mixology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelClark/pseuds/RachelClark
Summary: As the Cardassian occupation of Bajor enters its fifth decade, a Terran runaway builds a new life for himself on Terok Nor and begins a dangerous partnership with an Obsidian Order Operative.





	1. A bruise is a lesson...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quark has a visitor, Julian shows off a new skill, and Garak wonders what the hell possessed him to think taking responsibility for an adolescent human was a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct sequel to 'An Unusual Proposition' and picks up three months after the end of that story. 
> 
> Although this chapter has a less angsty tone than 'Proposition' the events portrayed in it warrant a trigger warning for sexual harassment and child abuse.

Quark’s bar is always relatively quiet during the last week of the Cardassian military pay cycle.

Never one to overlook an opportunity, the proprietor is in the habit of using this time to take care of business interests elsewhere.

For three months after 'The Human' begins working for him as a gambling prop, he avoids making any such trips. He tells Morn it’s because the Julian Anwar has a knack for attracting trouble and he doesn’t dare leave the bar unattended with the boy in it. Morn knows Quark well enough to see through this; it’s true that the human has an overdeveloped sense of mischief and a sharp tongue, but Morn has observed that Cardassians seem to find these traits appealing.

No, the real reason Quark doesn’t want to leave the station now that The Human is here is that he’s _protective_ of the boy. ‘He reminds me of my idiot brother,’ he’s told Morn more than once, and Morn has known Quark long enough to know that he loves his idiot brother more than anything.

It’s an unfortunate coincidence then that Rom and his son arrive on Terok Nor the same evening Quark is finally persuaded to make an overnight trip to Pyrellia with Rionoj, a Boslik captain he describes as a 'casual business associate'.

The bar is quiet; a few Boslics on shore leave, two Bajoran collaborators enjoying a quiet dinner together and three Cardassian soldiers gathered around the Dabo table competing to impress Hartla and two bored-looking comfort women.

The Human has been watching holovids about something called ‘flair bar tending’ - which seems to involve a lot of juggling glassware and setting drinks on fire - and has decided to use Quark’s absence to try it out despite Morn’s objections on his friend’s behalf.

“Relax,” is Julian’s response when Morn voices his concerns, “it’s not like I’m going to drop anything; this is the safest pair of hands in the sector. Come on, let me make you a cocktail. Vaatrik thinks my Bolian Mojito is the best he’s ever tasted.”

Morn concedes that Julian has a point; he’s been tossing and spinning bottles in the air with the grace of an Orion fire-dancer all evening. Morn also has to admit that he likes this genuinely playful side of the human more than the suave, seductive veneer he has around his Cardassian friends. It would be a shame to spoil his fun, and if he’s going to do it anyway then someone should enjoy the results.

“I’m glad you agree,” says Julian, “So, how about a Savage Mary? It’s like a Terran Bloody Mary but made with Klingon Bloodwine instead of tomato juice.”

Morn shoots him an incredulous look.

The human sighs. “You’re right,” he says, “probably more of a weekend brunch drink. You know what though, I’ve been wanting to try something with liquid nitrogen in it. Cardassians can’t drink it – too cold – but I bet I could make you a perfect Warp Core Breach.”

Actually that does sound pretty good…

“Excellent,” says Julian. “Now… can you remember where Quark keeps the blow torch?”

  
  
  


Garak had been less than impressed when Julian had told him about his new hobby during one of their regular com calls.

“It’s a useful skill for an intelligence operative,” Julian had protested. “What if you need me to… I don’t know, infiltrate a casino behind enemy lines?”

“My dear, you _have_ infiltrated a casino behind enemy lines,” Garak pointed out, “and I was rather hoping you might continue to go about it with a modicum of discretion.”

“I am being discrete,” Julian had snapped. “Do you think I enjoy sitting in that place every night entertaining tyrants and rapists? Maybe you think I’m doing all of this for fun, that being groped and petted and called a slut and pretending I like it is my idea of a good time? It isn’t so bad when it’s just Re’gal, but he’s been on Cardassia for weeks now; meanwhile, Dukat’s decided to rotate some of the regiments so the station’s been full of strange, lonely, entitled soldiers who come into Quark’s and treat us all like they own us. I’m sorry if you don’t like that I deal with it all by playing the fool, Garak, but what do you want me to do? Sit there sullenly glaring at everyone with smouldering hatred like some of the Bajorans do? How long do you think the ones who do that last around here?”

“If you think your particular brand of playful insolence is going to ensure your survival there indefinitely then I’m afraid you’re even more naïve than I thought” Garak had countered calmly. “Channelling your temper into games and repartee won’t work forever; you need to learn to keep your mind calm. If you’d been practising meditation as we agreed instead of playing at being a bartender you might have made some progress on that front.” 

“Meditation doesn’t do anything except make me cross!” Julian argued. “I can’t just _stop_ thinking like that – when I try I feel like I have a swarm of Vulcan fire-bees buzzing around in my head! The only way I know how to make my brain go quiet is to find things that I can really concentrate on…" 

“… and that includes strutting around behind the bar like a Casperian rent-boy?” 

Garak knew he’d crossed a line before the words had finished leaving his mouth. He was usually slow to anger, but Julian seemed to have a unique ability to get under his scales. 

Julian stared at him with bright eyes, his mouth a small, tight line. Before Garak could find the words to apologise, the boy had terminated the com-link. 

Garak closed his eyes and asked himself – not for the first time, and likely not for the last – what the hell had possessed him to think that taking responsibility for an adolescent human was a good idea. 

  
  
  


“Okay,” says Julian, “so, we’ve got some Aldebaran Whisky, Cuban Rum… and the pièce de résistance, one bottle of 2170 vintage Saurian brandy.”

He gives the last bottle a couple of experimental flips – its weight and asymmetrical shape mean getting the balance right is a little tricky. Gaining confidence, he tries a shadowpass and then a bump, which sends the bottle hurtling out of control. He dives for it, keeping his right foot on the ground and kicking his left out for balance as his right hand swoops down to catch the bottle an inch away from the floor.

“Harder than the Orion girl in the holovid made it look,” he tells Morn, who just looks at him doubtfully. 

He rights himself, and notices he has a new customer. A hunched, awkward-looking little Ferengi is standing in the middle of the bar’s entrance, his eyes darting furtively around the room. He almost looks frightened... not that Julian can blame him. He’s obviously new here and Terok Nor’s general atmosphere is more than a little intimidating.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“I’m… I’m looking for Quark,” the Ferengi says shyly, keeping his eyes averted.

Quark had told Julian to be wary of any strange Ferengi who might call in his absence, muttering something about how his sister-in-law’s family were trying to trick him into investing in an extension to his brother’s marriage contract. He hadn’t mentioned the possibility that any of them might visit in person.

“He’s not here,” Julian explains, “but if this has anything to do with his brother’s marriage, he says that he doesn’t think ‘Nog’ was worth the capital he staked on ‘the initial venture’ and he has no interest in financing an extension.” He suddenly remembers a question he’d forgotten to ask Quark because he’d been concentrating on memorising the names of all eighty-two varieties of Kanar in the store room on the off chance that he might be able to use the knowledge to impress Garak. “What exactly is a ‘Nog’ anyway?”

And just like that, the Ferengi bursts into tears, emitting a pitiful, high pitched wail.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asks, alarmed.

Morn shoots him a deeply reproachful look and patiently explains that ‘Nog’ is Quark’s nephew and - from his slightly pathetic reaction to Julian’s comments - he would guess that their visitor is, in fact, Quark’s brother Rom.

“Are you?” Julian asks him.

The Ferengi wipes his streaming nose on his sleeve. “Y…yes,” he says, sitting down on the bar stool that Morn pulls out for him. “Do... do you know when he'll be back?”

“He’s away on, er, business,” Julian says professionally. “He should be back tomorrow night. Can I get you anything?”

“I don’t have any money,” Rom says sadly.

“On the house,” Julian reassures him, “or on me if Quark objects to that.”

His generosity is rewarded with the sort of disdainful look that Julian has learned to recognise as indicating he’d just done something horrifyingly ‘hew-mon’. For a moment, he can clearly see the family resemblance.

“Um,” says Rom, without meeting Julian’s eyes. “A snail juice would be good.”

“Coming right up,” says Julian, finding the box of chilled snails and scooping half a dozen of them into a glass. “So,” he says in his best bartender voice, “rough day, huh?”

“My wife left me,” Rom explains morosely. “Her father took my life savings - my accounts, my investments, even my home - and then she left me for a richer Ferengi and now all I have left is Nog. Do you have any idea what this feels like?” He squints at Julian “What am I talking about… look at you, you’re young, handsome, you have a good job working for _my_ brother… you have no idea how cruel the universe can be.”

“Nope,” says Julian, shoving a straw into Rom’s snail juice with more force than is strictly necessary and sliding it across the bar. “So, is your son here with you?”

“Of course he is,” says Rom, “he’s right...” he looks around, seeming to realise his son is no longer at his side. “Nog! Where are you? I told you to stay right…”

An ear-splitting crash resounds through the bar, originating from the Dabo table.

“Mine!” shouts a child’s determined voice, and Julian realises with dawning horror that Rom’s tiny son has managed to snatch a fist full of Glin Letok’s latinum.

“Drop it you little bastard,” Letok snarls, grabbing the child by the ear and dragging him backwards. Julian inhales sharply; Letok’s a vicious xenophobe for whom non-Cardassians barely register as people. Every member of Quark’s staff has ended up with bruises as a result of his rough manners more than once and that’s nothing compared to the way he’s rumoured to treat the Bajorans. Seeing him with a child who can’t be any older than five in his hands is terrifying.

“No, please, not the ears,” Rom says, scurrying to intervene. Letok backhands him with his free arm, knocking him to the ground.

“Please,” Rom continues through a mouth full of blood, “pleeease… he still has his baby-ears, they’re very sensitive!”

“Good,” says Letok, his fingers digging into the delicate cartilage and twisting, “then this will help him remember that the Cardassion military takes a very dim view of theft.”

“He’s three!” Rom pleads, “You know what children are like when they’re just learning to acquire things. You can’t leave anything of value unattended around them!”

“Morn,” Julian whispers urgently, grabbing the Lurian by the shoulder and jerking his head in the direction of the security office, “get Thrax.”

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Glinn Letok,” he says, stepping out from behind the bar and trying to sound as conciliatory as Quark would in this situation, “On behalf of Quark’s bar I’d like to apologise for this unfortunate incident. I’m sure the child’s father will see that he’s punished. Perhaps I can interest you in a free spin of the Dabo wheel to finish your evening?”

“Stay out of this, whore,” the Glinn warns, giving the child’s ear another sharp twist. Julian hears a bone snap.

Nog begins to wail. Rom pushes himself up off the floor and throws himself towards Letok, but the Glinn’s two friends catch him and hold him back. They’re both Gils who serve under him; Julian doesn’t know their names, but one of them has the bloodshot eyes of a long term alcoholic, while the other has a short, thick neck that makes him look ridiculously square-shaped in his military uniform.

“I’ve called security,” Julian says. “Do you really want Thrax to find you manhandling a child?”

Letok snarls and thrusts the child away in the direction of his friends. Nog stumbles and falls at Short-Neck’s feet, whimpering in pain.

“You think you can tell me what to do because you’re that degenerate Re’gal’s plaything, is that it?” he says as he stalks towards Julian.

“I’m not telling you what to do, I’m giving you advice,” Julian stands his ground.

Letok shoves him against the bar. After a year on testosterone Julian is of average height for a human male, but Letok is still taller and probably weighs twice what he does. He tries to wriggle free and finds himself pinned. He tries to push Letok away, his fingernails scraping the Glinn’s neck ridges. Letok growls and thrusts his hips against Julian’s, his face flushing purple. Julian lets go, suddenly remembering what Garak and Re’gal have told him about the sensitivity of that particular feature of Cardassian anatomy.

He starts to panic. His vision blurs and for a moment he’s back on Earth, bleeding in the dirt and pinned in place by another man who saw him as less than a sentient being. _Half-baked augment bitch. I’d take a good look up at the sky if I were you. Where you’re going I’d be surprised if they ever let you see it again._

  
  
  


One of the first things Garak had done for Julian at the beginning of their acquaintance had been to procure his complete medical records, from the specifications for his augmentation on Adigeon Prime to the results of the physical examination he underwent at Starfleet Academy as part of ill-fated entrance test.

They’d reviewed them together, sitting on opposite sides of the dining table in Julian’s cramped quarters. “Physical strength is never going to be your greatest asset,” had been one of Garak’s earliest observations, “though I encourage you to work on it as anyone leading such a active and unpredictable life should. Your reflexes and hand-eye coordination, on the other hand, are astounding. Do you remember taking the reaction and adaptation capabilities test during your visit to Starfleet Academy?”

“The scenario glitched twice and they had to re-set it,” Julian told him. “As if I wasn’t nervous enough already.”

“The scenario ‘glitched’ because your responses were too fast to measure against human norms,” Garak had told him. “Before they restarted it the second time they adjusted the settings so that it would process you as a Vulcan and you _still_ scored within the 98th percentile.”

Julian shuddered. “That was the first test I took, right after my physical… if they knew that early that something was wrong with me why did they keep going?”

“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with you,” Garak always makes a point of correcting him when he talks about himself like this, “and I imagine someone on the testing panel realised that after they confronted you about your enhancements they might not get another chance to accurately measure what you were truly capable of. Should you ever find yourself in a real fight, it’s your reflexes, your coordination and your brain that will give you the advantage. You’re quick and you’re precise, not to mention resourceful and determined…”

“There’s nothing about ‘determination’ and ‘resourcefulness’ in any of these reports,” Julian protested.

“Isn’t there?” Garak said mildly, “well then, you must have developed those qualities all on your own.”

  
  
  


Letok grabs a fistful of Julian’s shoulder-length hair and pulls his head back, his Kanar-laced breath hot on Julian’s face. "The only thing you're qualified to give advice on is how to lie down and take whatever I choose to do to you like the Terran bitch that you are."

Julian surveys the room.

Not just the parts he can see; all of it. The number that came up on the last spin of the Dabo wheel (19), how much Kanar remains in the bottle on Vaatrik’s table (1600 millilitres, he doesn’t like the taste, only drinks it to impress the Cardassians). His eidetic memory enables him to see everything in his minds eye.

Vaatrik and his wife have fled the scene. Hartla and the two comfort women have retreated behind the Dabo table. Short-Neck and Red-Eyes are watching Julian and Letok closely whilst keeping a hold of the two Ferengi.

He assesses the resources he has at hand. One two-hundred-year-old bottle of Saurian Brandy, about thirty centimetres beyond his current reach. One cocktail grinder and one blow torch, lying on the counter, within reach but impossible to get a good grip on from this angle. One cocktail shaker full of liquid nitrogen. Can’t see it from this angle. Doesn’t matter, he knows he set it down twenty degrees to the right and twenty-six centimetres away from where the back of his head now rests. 

_Good, now you’ve taken stock of the situation,_ he can hear Garak’s voice in his head, _but don’t forget, you’re living among Cardassians now. Everyone here has an eidetic memory. What sets you apart here is your human ability to think sequentially. So; what are you going to do next?_

He reaches above his head and grabs the shaker, hurling its contents forward into Letok’s face. Letok reels back with an outraged scream, the bitter-cold liquid turning to gas the moment it touches his cool skin.

Both arms now free, Julian snatches up the bottle of brandy. He knows the heft of it now, knows exactly how much force to hurl it with and exactly how much spin to put on it so the base hits Red-Eyes bang in the centre of his forehead-spoon.

Red-Eyes hits the deck like a stone.

Letok recovers, lunging at Julian. Julian spins one hundred and eighty degrees, grabs the grinder in his left hand and the blow torch in his right. Letok wraps an arm around his throat. Julian jumps and kicks hard against the bar with bothe feet, sending them both flying backwards over a table, upending it and spilling the remains of Vaatrik’s meal over both of them. The acrid stench of thick, pure Kanar hits the back of Julian’s nasal passage as he rolls away and comes to his feet. Pain flares across his lower back and side where he’d landed awkwardly against the central ridge of Letok’s chest armour, but the wound isn’t severe enough to incapacitate him.

Letok is slower getting up. Sometimes Julian feels like everyone but him is slow, like they’re in a holovid being played at half-speed. Garak is the only other person who’s always quick enough to keep up.

He waits for Letok, allowing him to rebalance himself. Short-Neck has dropped Nog and is hovering to one side, ready to intervene, but Letok is completely enraged now, fixated on taking Julian down himself.

He charges, throwing a well-aimed punch at the side of Julian’s face. Julian ducks under it, lighting the blow torch and letting the flames lick the Glinn’s liqueur-soaked pants. The lower half of Letok’s body goes up like wildfire.

Short-Neck comes at Julian but the human is still in motion, ready for his attack. _Cardassian’s have a vulnerable spot beneath the chin, unprotected by scales_ , Garak’s voice reminds him as his right arm comes up to stab Short-Neck in the throat with the grinder, its sharp-end drawing blood without piercing too deep.

The bar’s sprinkler system comes on, soaking them all and dousing the flames licking Letok’s legs and backside, just as Thrax Sa’Kat comes charging into the bar at the head of a security detail.

Short-Neck falls to the ground, unconscious.

“What the hell is going on here?” Thrax bellows as one of his officers manages to shut the sprinklers off.

Julian looks down at the three Cardassians on the ground, two of them out cold and Letok on his knees, whimpering in pain just as Nog had been a few moments ago. High on adrenaline, Julian finds himself grinning as he pushes his wet hair back from his forehead. “Warp Core Breach,” he explains

"What?" says Thrax 

Julian indicates the scene with the hand that’s still holding the blow-torch. “Turned out a bit messier than I expected. Think I might have over-smoked it.”

He suddenly realizes everyone is staring at him; Thrax, his officers, Morn, Hartla, the Comfort Women... even Rom. None of them seem to know quite what to say. 

Letok, surprisingly, is the first to recover the power of speech. “This Terran slut attacked us,” he snarls.

Julian brushes one of the Glinn's hairs off his shirt. “Human, not Terran... and you know there are words you can use to describe this station's service workers that _aren't_ sexual slurs, right?” 

“It’s not a slur if it’s true,” Letok responds. “The only thing I’ve ever seen you do on this station is hang around at the bar begging for it,” he looks at Thrax and shrugs, “or perhaps I’m wrong and the little cunt learned how to squeeze a man’s neck ridges so hard they bleed at medical school?”

Julian inspects the blood under his fingernails with affected nonchalance, “perhaps I learned it from your mother,” he suggests with a shrug. It’s a cheap shot, but now he’s come this far he can’t seem to stop. It's so easy to push Letok’s buttons.

Letok yells another predictable insult, attempts to lurch to his feet, and then collapses sideways. His thick, scaled skin means he's less badly burned than a human would be in his place, but he's clearly still in considerable pain.  


“Enough,” Thrax roars. “You,” he points at Hartla, an Orion Dabo girl who’s Cardassian lover works in the military procurement office under Gil Damar. “What happened?”

“The Ferengi child tried to take the Glinn’s money, sir,” she says respectfully. Rom has Nog safe in his arms now. One of the comfort women kneels beside them, attempting to stem the flow of blood from Nog's ear with a fistfull of her skirt. "The Glinn grabbed him and broke his ear. We could all see that the child was badly hurt. Julian told Morn to fetch you. When he tried to apologise on the Ferengi’s behalf, Letok tried to choke him. Then the fight started. It was so fast, I didn’t see exactly how it happened.”

Thrax points to the two unconscious soldiers on the floor. “Who knocked them out?”

“I did,” Julian says quickly.

“Is this true?” Thrax asks Letok.

“He fights dirty,” Letok mutters.

"Yes, that must have come as a shock to you after five years of fighting the noble warriors of the Bajoran Resistance,” Thrax says dryly. “Tell me, Letok, did you spend your time in Dakhur province waiting for the Shakar to knock on the door of your barracks and challenge you to honourable combat? No wonder we’ve lost control of the place!”

“That’s rich coming from a man whose idea of military service is keeping the peace on a space station,” Letok spits.

“I’m glad you’re familiar with my duties,” Thrax replies. “That should make it nice and easy for you to understand what’s about to happen.”

He turns to one of his deputies, “Melek, take the Ferengi to the infirmary and see that the child receives full treatment. Tell Doctor Damar that any costs should be charged to Glinn Letok’s account. Te’mar, put the human in a holding cell. Move some of the Bajorans around if you need to but don’t mix him in with them. You,” he points a finger at Julian. “I have been told that you are under the protection of a man of significant influence but regardless, if I hear so much as a whisper about that glib little tongue of yours provoking any more trouble I’ll have you stripped naked and whipped in the middle of the promenade like a Bajoran slave, understand?”

Julian nods sullenly.

Thrax, however, isn’t done. “As for you,” he says, turning to Letok “abusing Bajoran workers is one thing but this is the third time I’ve been called to deal with a complaint about you brutalising a non-aligned alien migrant. You’re giving my station a bad name and I won’t have it. Gul Dukat gave Doctor Damar and I his word that if this happened again you’d be on the next transport back to Cardassia. I intend to see that he keeps it. Until the logistics of your transfer can be arranged, you’re confined to quarters. A medic will be sent to attend to you there shortly.”

  
  
  


“What happened to you, kid?” one of the six Bajorans crowded into the cell opposite Julian’s calls out to him. “Your spoon-head boyfriend get rougher than you could handle?”

“You should come by our side of the station; I’d be gentle with you,” one of his comrades adds.

“As if he ever would!” A third man chimes in. “Look at him Razka, you idiot, with a face like that I bet he’s making a killing servicing the Cardies. How much for a blow-job, kid? Razka here probably can’t afford your usual rates but since he only has a very tiny little prick maybe you could give him a discount?”

Julian does his best to ignore them. He sits with his eyes closed, his back against the wall and his feet up on the bench. He pushes down through his toes to brace himself a little more firmly, keeping his breaths slow and deep.

He thinks he might have broken a rib or two in the fight, which would be painful enough even if he hadn’t had his binder on for sixteen hours and counting. He wishes he could unfasten the bloody thing, but with so many eyes watching him through his cell’s force field that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

“Are you alright?”

Julian opens his eyes to see Thrax drop the force field and step inside.

He nods stiffly.

“I should be thanking you," Thrax says, "Letok’s always been trouble. I’ve been looking for a reason to get rid of him for months.”  


That’s not good enough. “If it’s taken you this long to find one I’m afraid I don’t think much of your detective skills,” he says. “I know for a fact he’s raped four different women in the three months I’ve lived here…”

“Bajoran women,” Thrax argues. “We conquered them. You can’t rape a member of a subjugated race. Not under Cardassian Law.”

“That’s vile,” Julian argues. “How can you just turn a blind eye to something like that?”

Thrax doesn’t say anything. Julian thinks he has the resigned air of a man who’s been living with atrocities for far too long.

“I don’t suppose it’ll be much consolation to you,” he says eventually, “but he won’t be doing much raping while those burns are healing. Doctor Damar thinks a slow recovery will ensure the injuries to his more delicate areas heal more fully in the long-term.”

Julian bites the inside of his cheek. He can tell Thrax wants him to share a laugh with him, but he’s damned if he’ll give the man the satisfaction.

Thrax shakes his head and gives Julian a sad look. “Hartla says Letok knocked you around a bit before you set him on fire,” he says when he eventually speaks. “I can take you to the doctor if you need treatment?”

“It’s just a few bruises,” Julian assures him, “I’ve had worse.”

Thrax sighs. “If you say so. Off you go, then.”

Julian blinks. “But you said…”

“I said what I had to say to keep the peace, and everyone saw my officers hauling your skinny human ass to the security office. It’s late, you’ve been here for hours, the bar’s closed and the promenade’s deserted. Go home and get some sleep.”

  
  
  


Back in his quarters, Julian stands in front of his bathroom mirror dressed in a pair of pyjama pants and nothing else.

A black and blue bruise the size of his hand has begun to form on the side of his ribcage; he’d replicated a cold-pack and a hypo load of pain killers as soon as he’d arrived home, but even the lightest touch against the area triggers a wave of excruciating pain.

He’s pretty sure at least two of his ribs are broken, which means somehow he’s going to have to get proper medical treatment.

He cups his small, pointed breasts in his hands and presses them back against his chest. He closes his eyes and imagines they’re not there at all.

When he opens his eyes, of course, nothing has changed.

“Well done, Jules,” he tells his reflection. “This time you’re well and truly fucked.”


	2. They're all liars here...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian takes advantage of a sympathetic doctor, trades secrets, and makes a profit.

Doctor Niala Damar sinks into one of the well-stuffed leather armchairs in her office and wonders whether now is the right time to enrol in an advanced multi species medicine programme. Between last night’s crash course in Ferengi paediatric ear surgery and her ongoing treatment of Tora Naprem’s condition, she is certainly getting a thorough hands-on education in the field.

A pot of Red Leaf tea has been left to steep on her desk, next to a plate of freshly baked Kava rolls. Cardassian and Bajoran flavours, ready to be enjoyed together; a symbol of the unlikely friendship that has grown between Niala and her two comrades over the past year, and of a future imagined better. This will be one of the last times they meet, and somehow Niala thinks her life will be less colourful when they are done. 

The door to her office opens, and Thrax Sa’kat ushers Tora Naprem inside.

“… I have no idea how he did it,” the station’s Head of Security tells Gul Dukat’s mistress as he locks the door behind them, “by the time we got there, Mavek and Dirlan were our cold on the floor, Letok was on his knees with _steam _coming off of his ass, and the kid was just standing in the middle of it all dripping wet and grinning like a maniac!”__

____

“You’re discussing Quark’s new ‘host’?” Niala asks them.

“‘Quark’s new host,’” Tora parrots, collapsing bonelessly onto the couch opposite her. “‘Legate Re’gal’s Catamite,’ ‘Gul Dukat’s Mistress’… it’s funny how easily people overlook you once they’ve made up their minds you’re nothing more than a tawdry accessory to someone more important.” 

Tora has, of course, made a career out of being overlooked. 

“Have you run a background check?” Niala asks Thrax. She’s always been more cautious than the other two about protecting their little conspiracy – of the three of them she has the most to lose – and she finds Tora’s analogy unsettling. 

Thrax is already chewing on a roll as he paces the room. Niala suspects he’s been at his desk all night writing up the witness reports from the bar fight. He will want everything to be in order to present to Dukat as soon as the Prefect returns from Cardassia.

“His ID checks out,” he says around a mouthful of bread. “Julian Anwar, nineteen years old, born on Farius…”

“Nasty place to grow up,” Tora remarks.

“Corat says he’s got a chip on his shoulder about the Federation,” Niala remembers. “He says he gets defensive when people assume he was born there.”

“He corrected Letok when he called him Terran,” Thrax adds. 

Niala shakes her head as she gets up to pour the tea. “It seems so... _disloyal_ for a man to disparage his species’ home world so.”

“There’s no love lost between the Federation and Farius,” Thrax reminds her. “There’s a lot of disenfranchised and disillusioned humans on that little world. Humans who didn’t want to live under Federation rule, the children those humans raised, their grandchildren. We’re talking about a kid who grew up there with no father and a mother who died in prison when he was twelve. He’s got a record of his own - smuggling, brawling, petty theft – got caught, paid some fines, did a few months hard labour. You know he came here on the Aksum, one of the regular long-haul freighters? I talked to the Captain and she seemed to think he was in some kind of trouble with the local gangs.”

“You're impressed by all of that, aren't you?" Tora says, amused. 

Thrax grins toothily, “all of that and his ability to beat up offensive Glinns," he admits, "always had a soft spot for a scrapper." A miner’s son from Cardassia 4, Thrax knows what it means to have to fight your way out of a rough childhood, something neither Niala nor Tora has any concept of. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid, let you know if I notice anything suspicious,” he assures them. “I don’t suppose he came by the infirmary after I let him out? I know he came out on top in the bar fight, but humans are easy to damage, and he looked a little banged up to me.”

“If he did, I didn’t see him,” Niala replies, “but I spent half my night reconstructing the Ferengi child’s ear and the other half treating Glinn Letok’s injuries. There is perhaps a certain poetic justice in a serial rapist suffering burns that fused the scales on either side of his genital vent together, but I’m not sure exactly what sins _I’ve_ committed in my life to earn the dubious privilege of performing the surgery to separate them.”

Glinn Letok is despised by most of Terok Nor’s civilian population, but that doesn’t stop both Tora and Thrax from wincing in sympathy at Niala’s rather graphic description of his wounds.

“Did you sleep at all?” Tora asks her.

“I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years,” Niala complains. “Gevil’s neck ridges are growing in, so they’re awake screaming for half the night every night. Alin’s going through a phase where they go to bed as an Enigma-Woman, wake up in the middle of the night as a Thinking-Man then, out of nowhere, at breakfast they're an Agendered-Hero. I’ve been washing my underwear in the sonic shower for a week because they’ve already used up our entire month’s allowance of replicated clothing. You’d think Sakel would be less of a worry now that he’s at school on Cardassia, but we’ve had him on the com at 0400 hours twice in the past week; apparently he ‘forgets’ what the time is on Terok Nor. It’s not like he lived here for eight years of his life or anything.”

“I suppose it’s too late to change my mind about going through with this?” Tora jokes, patting the barely-there swelling beneath her loose, heavy tunic.

“About that…” says Niala. “I looked the scans Nurse Horan took this morning; the baby’s growing fast now, Naprem. You might be able to hide it from the rest of the station for a few more weeks, but Dukat…”

“… is going to notice when he gets back,” Tora finishes for her, “which means it’s time for me to leave.”

They'd discussed termination as an option early in Tora's pregnancy; in fact, Tora had seemed to want Niala to be the one to try to talk her into it, to remind her of how many Bajoran lives she might save through continuing her work as a spy. To point out that Gul Dukat's half-Bajoran bastard would face unimaginable prejudice growing up, and that anyway, no-one should want to have a child in the middle of such a brutal war. But Niala's youngest had been a surprise, too, and while in theory the idea of bringing a child into the world while serving at a military outpost in wartime, with a depressed husband and a troubled marriage, should have seemed like madness, Niala never doubted that she wanted Gevil, and that Naprem feels the same love for her unborn child is obvious. 

“Corat says Central Command have ordered Dukat to remain on Cardassia for a few more days?” she says.

“He says they’re really grilling him about Dakhur,” Tora explains.

“The Bajorans are saying the resistance has taken control of the entire province,” says Thrax. “I had Razka Karn and some of his lot in the cells overnight and they couldn’t stop bragging about it. Is it true?”

Tora shakes her head, “I don’t know. He won’t say.”

“Corat won’t either,” says Niala, “but Parmak thinks so.”

“And you’re sure you can trust Parmak?” Thrax presses.

“They’re not lying. I’ve never known anyone with such a strong distaste for intrigue. I just don’t know whether the resistance completely trust Parmak yet. They could be feeding them misinformation.”

“If it’s true Dukat won’t let it stand,” says Tora. “He’ll come down hard .”

“Re’gal will want to negotiate,” ventures Thrax, “and the word from Cardassia Prime is that Re’gal’s influence is increasing. His performance in this term’s assembly debates has been impressive by all accounts.”

“Oh, Dukat will hate that,” says Tora.

Niala shakes her head, “Central Command won’t allow itself to be told what to do by a degenerate progressive like Tohan Re’gal,” she says. “It suits them to have him on the floor of the assembly spouting his ‘radical’ notions about Bajor’s eventual fitness to govern itself because it allows them to take the centre-ground. They can be seen as a moderating influence on Dukat without actually having to back down on any of their militaristic, expansionist policies. He’ll be back in a few days, and he’ll be out to prove a point.”

“That makes me even more certain that this is the right thing to do, then,” says Tora. “When I leave, I go to Dakhur.”

“You’re sure you won’t reconsider?” says Thrax. “We could still get you to Liseppia. You and your child will be safer there.”

“Parmak’s delivered more healthy hybrid children than any other doctor we know of,” says Tora, “and what can I do for my people from Liseppia? From Dakhur, I can still make a… a…”

A difference, Niala guesses she had intended to say, before being overcome by a sudden bout of sneezing.

As Niala and Thrax wait for it to pass, the doctor’s communicator chirrups.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor,” says Nurse Horan, “but there’s ah… a patient here to see you.”

“I thought I’d made it clear that my early morning surgery was cancelled,” Niala replies, annoyed. “If it’s an emergency they can see Doctor Mina. Tell them if they're healthy enough to refuse treatment from a Bajoran doctor, they're healthy enough to wait.”

“My apologies, Doctor, your instructions were very clear but… it’s the human, the one everyone's saying beat up Glinn Letok, and he says he wants to see a female doctor. He won't say why.”

Niala raises an eye-ridge and looks at Thrax, who nods.

“Have him to wait there,” Niala tells the nurse, “I’ll see him shortly.”

  
  


The thing Niala admires most about Tora Naprem is that despite the Ignominy of her position as Gul Dukat's mistress, she is one of the most dignified people Niala has ever met. So the fact that she is still struggling to bring her sneezing under control as Thrax - every inch the stern security officer once more - marches her out of the infirmary is only _a little_ amusing.

The Human – Julian, Niala reminds herself – barely seems to notice them. Niala leads him into her office and orders him to sit down on the edge of the biobed. 

They’ve met several times over the past few months, as Julian has become Legate Re’gal’s favoured companion as well as a fixture at Quark’s bar. She has never seen him looking anything less than beautiful before; he tends to dress elegantly, in clothing designed to be alluring in an understated way, and he is always impeccably well-groomed.

Today, however, he looks unusually small with his hands balled in the front pockets of an oversized, hooded sweater. His eyes are red and a little sunken, his hair tousled. There are beads of sweat on his forehead. Niala wonders if he might have a fever? That would explain why he’s dressed in such a bulky garment. 

“Thank you for seeing me,” he says softly. His eyes follow her around the room as she gathers the instruments she will need to examine him.

“It’s quite alright,” she assures him. “You’ve been living on this station for three months and you’re in a sexual relationship with a Cardassian citizen. I should have requested that you come in for a physical weeks ago, but the troop rotations have had a disruptive effect on all of our schedules here. What is it that I can help you with?”

Slowly, Julian removes his hands from his pockets and reaches for the fastening at the collar of his sweater. He draws it part of the way down and then hesitates, looking up to meet Niala’s eyes.

“I’m not…” he begins to blurt, before stopping and taking a rather deep breath. “My relationship with Legate Re’gal isn’t about sex,” he continues, even and deliberate. “I haven’t ever had a sexual partner, nor am I interested in being with anyone like that in the near future. So there’s no need for you to examine… er, everything.”

Niala feels a smile tugging at her lips and isn’t quite able to suppress it. “I didn’t think _you’d_ be a shy patient,” she says.

“I’m not,” he says, a little peevishly. “It's just… oh, fuck it, it's probably easier to show you.”

He unfastens his sweater the rest of the way and pulls the front open, but stops with a pained grimace midway through trying to pull his left arm free.

“You’re hurt,” she realizes. “Here, let me.”

She reaches for him, slowly so that he can see the touch coming. Taking hold of his collar, she slides the garment back off his shoulders. It pools around his waist, where she allows him to gather it against himself. He turns his face away from her, eyes unfocused, as though he's trying to see something that's two levels below them through the floor.

“You’re too skinny,” she scolds him. As a medical professional, she knows she shouldn’t pass judgment on the shape of another person’s body in this way, but as the mother of teenaged children, she wants to invite him to dinner with her family and cut him an extra-large slice of her husband’s Larish Pie. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen, " he says without looking up.

That's what Thrax said - and on any other day he might pass for somewhere in his early twenties - but seeing him like this, Niala thinks he looks younger.

She turns her attention to the ugly looking bruise blooming across his lower rib-cage, a bright band of mottled reds, purples, and blues against his light brown skin. He has other bruises too; vivid, colourful ones around his throat and stale-looking brown ones along the sides of his ribcage. Niala doesn’t touch, but her eyes follow the patterns these bruises make, bracketing the soft swelling of the boy’s mammary glands. She averts her eyes from his dark, full nipples. For Cardassians, breasts are private and covered with protective scaling unless the person in question is either aroused or nursing a child. Even for a medical professional, it’s rude to stare at this area of a stranger’s body, but there is something about seeing breasts like this on a boy that makes her ache for happier times.

When they were younger, her husband’s chest would always swell like this after Niala had birthed a child. 

“Why are you binding yourself?” she asks.

Julian looks up at her scornfully, as though he thinks her question is a stupid one. "Human men don’t look like this,” he says, annoyed. “I thought all Cardassians determined their own gender? What do _you_ do when you become aware that your… that it's different from your biological sex?”

“Our bodies begin producing hormones that gradually alter our sex until it’s congruent with our gender,” she tells him.

He seems somewhat taken aback by this.“Your bodies do that _naturally_?”

“In most cases, yes,” Niala replies, “though there are exceptions. May I?” Her fingers hover over the larger bruise, waiting for permission.

He nods stiffly, looking away again and biting down on his lower lip as she begins to inspect the wound, first with her hands and then with a tricorder.

“Tell me about the exceptions?” he asks as she works.

She shouldn’t. Cardassians are a private people. They don’t discuss such matters with aliens… but then, it would be so nice to talk about it, and with someone who might understand, who might find comfort in knowing he isn’t the only one suffering as he is…

"It's embarrassing for you, that you are female-bodied?" she asks him.

"Not exactly. It's more like... sometimes I'll step out of the shower in the morning and I see my reflection in the mirror and at first I don't recognise myself... and then it hits me suddenly, that this is what I look like under my clothes, and I feel like I'm on a shuttle with no inertial dampeners that's just jumped to warp nine. And then I can't tear my eyes away. I stare at her, at the girl in the mirror, and it isn't as though I'm repulsed by her or anything - she looks fine, nice even - it's more like I feel like I've stolen her body, like I'm this _thing_ that isn't supposed to exist, and I wonder what happened to her? Is she part of me? Am I betraying her by living as a boy? Then, I get dressed, and I go out, but I feel like everyone can see right through me, can see that I'm a fraud, a freak, that I'm not right and I just _want_ to look like the person I am, to be seen, to be accepted. It's like... being homesick for somewhere you've never been."

Niala thinks about this for a bit before she responds. "I'm sorry if I was... not sufficiently sensitive, before," she says eventually. "I don't treat aliens often - at least I didn't until recently! For us - for Cardassians - it isn't unusual for gender and sex to be incongruent during adolescence. It's something most of us go through, and that most of us find awkward to some degree. My two eldest children seemed to know their genders from early childhood, but their bodies were still rebellious at times when they were in their early teens. My third-born, Alin, changes like the wind. Mind you, they seem to quite like the variety, so I won't be surprised if they grow into a multi or pan-gender adult."

“But you asked about exceptions, so let me give you an example. The Cardassian Union has been aggressively expanding its borders for two generations. We’ve been fighting to quell the Bajoran resistance for over fifty years. The war with the Federation is entering its second decade. This way of being… these years of warfare… they’ve changed our society, our values. We’ve come to hold the military in the highest regard, and the military is dominated by…” she pauses, struggling to find a term that the universal translator won’t completely butcher…

“… By ‘warrior-men’,” Julian finishes for her. Clearly, Niala is not the first person to offer him some insight into Cardassian society.

“By people who present themselves as ‘warrior men,’” Niala corrects him. “The reality is that generations of children are being raised with the notion that ‘warrior men’ can be of greater service to the state than people of other genders, and so they force themselves to fulfil this role even though it feels incongruous with who they really are. One of our most eminent gender-therapists, Nirol Ri’var, observed that during the second and third decades of the occupation there was a sharp rise in the number of emerging ‘warrior-men’ seeking treatment because their bodies were producing sex hormones indicative of other genders. Ri’var theorized that our young people were repressing their ‘true’ genders and adopting ‘warrior-man’ behaviours because they saw this as a way to be good citizens. When she published her research, Central Command had her tried and executed for treason.” She flips her tricorder closed. “You have two broken ribs, by the way. Let’s fix those first, then we’ll see about the rest.”

“The other bruises will be gone in a few days."

“They’ll be gone in a few minutes,” Niala says firmly. “I don’t want anyone saying I refused to give the boy who set Thanet Letok on fire proper medical care, and anyway, I wasn’t just talking about the bruises. There’s a synthesized androgen in your body. I assume this is a human male sex hormone? Who prescribed it?”

“Testosterone,” says Julian. “A doctor on Farius gave me the prescription.”

He's lying, she thinks. If she had to guess she would say that he estimated his own dosage and hacked his replicator to synthesize the hormone without a prescription... but it's of little importance, so she doesn't call him out on it. “You know," she says instead, "intramuscular hypo injections are a relatively primitive hormone treatment. The adrenal gland can be modified to produce androgens such as…”

“No,” Julian interrupts her sharply. “I’m aware of the treatments you’re referring to, doctor, but I don’t want genetic therapy"

“That’s your prerogative,” she says lightly. Humans are touchy about genetics. There’s history there, some ancient Terran war. It seems like a stupid reason to refuse an effective and reliable treatment, but it isn’t Niala’s place to judge, and perhaps Julian will change his mind when he’s older. “How would you feel about increasing your dosage of testosterone, then? I don’t know how you - or rather, your previous doctor - calculated your current dosage, but based on my readings I don’t think they sufficiently accounted for your unusually efficient metabolism. If we up the dosage and increase your calorie intake I believe it will benefit your overall health. 

"Okay," Julian says, still sounding a little guarded.

“There's another thing," she adds. "You might not want this either, but I think it's right to at least mention it. I’m not qualified or licensed to carry out the full range of gender-reassignment surgeries on non-Cardassians, but I could… that is, I believe I could perform a keyhole or peri areolar mastectomy on a member of another humanoid species. The structures are almost identical.”

“Surely Central Command doesn't pay you to perform top-surgery on wayward aliens," he says sceptically.

“I’m a doctor, and you’re my patient, therefore I am sworn to help you,” she says simply. “Is that not the way of things where you come from?”

“It is,” he says, “or… theoretically, it is. I’m not sure all doctors are so ethical in practice."

She wonders to what extent he's talking from personal experience

"You know," he adds, "I wanted to be a doctor, once. It seems like a long time ago, now.”

“Really?" she asks, surprised. He strikes her as too world-weary to have ever been drawn to such an idealistic profession. "What changed your mind?”

“I grew up,” he says. “I realized a career in medicine was… out of reach, for someone like me.”

“Maybe someday things will be different.”

“Yes,” he says, “maybe.” He doesn’t sound as though he believes it though. 

Niala sets her osteo-regenerator down. “There,” she says. “Let me just go over the rest of those bruises with a dermal regenerator, and then you can get dressed.”

He sits quietly as she fixes the bruises around his throat; most of them look like marks left by scrabbling fingers, though the largest resembles the shape of a Cardassian military wrist communicator. Its only when she turns her attention to the older bruises on his sides that he chooses to speak again

“You recognized that those were from a binder very quickly,” he says. “Have you seen a lot of patients with similar marks? Or just one? Someone you see often, perhaps?”

“Those questions are inappropriate,” she tells him.

“The latter, then,” he says confidently. “A few minutes ago you were being very open with me about Ri’var’s syndrome. You wouldn’t clam up now if we were still talking generally, which suggests you’re thinking of someone specific. Your son? No, your husband… he’s a sufferer, isn’t he? Does anyone else know? Or is it a secret you keep, just between the two of you?”

It’s the latter, of course. It's Corat’s secret, not hers, and she’s never told a soul, though she has wanted to. Every time someone asks her why she puts up with the drinking, why she stops short of giving him an ultimatum, why she won’t force him to talk to someone about his depression...

“He’s fluid,” she tells Julian quietly. “Sometimes more feminine, sometimes more masculine… when our older children were infants he was proud that his body adapted so that we could nurture them together. He had two older brothers, both military officers. One was killed by Bajoran terrorists, the other died fighting the Federation on Setlik 3. After they died… he put pressure on himself to be a ‘son’ to his family, to represent them as a good military officer… and one day I woke up and he was no longer the person I married.” She switches the dermal regenerator off. “There,” she says, “now I have one of your secrets and you have one of mine. I trust we will keep one another’s confidence?”

Julian looks her straight in the eyes. “I’m good at keeping secrets,” he assures her.

“So am I," she replies.

He gets to his feet, easing his arms into the sleeves of his sweater and pulling the fastener closed

“I’ll transmit the codes for the higher androgen prescription to the replicator in your quarters and information on the suggested dietary adjustments to your com terminal," she tells him, all business now. "Make an appointment to come back and see me in twenty-eight days and we can evaluate the effects. If you don’t, I’ll hunt you down.”

She ushers him out into the main Infirmary, where yet another alien patient is waiting for her. A Bajoran girl no older than fourteen but visibly pregnant.

Julian shoves his hands back into his front pockets, which does rather effectively disguise his body shape. “Thank you, Doctor," he says curtly. “I’ll be sure to consider everything we’ve discussed most carefully.” 

He inclines his head towards her respectfully, and then strides confidently out onto the promenade, all traces of his earlier vulnerability gone.

Niala looks down at her next patient. “You’re not due for your three-month scan until next week,” she says.

Vey Orenda opens her mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a series of five short sneezes. 

“I see,” Niena says dryly. “Let’s see what I can get you for that, then.”

  
  


If Doctor Damar had glanced back as she ushered her young patient into her office, she might have seen Julian pause while walking away. He doesn’t turn around, and he only stops for a second, just long enough to catch the doctor’s brief conversation with the young, pregnant Bajoran girl.

Sneezing is a side effect of pregnancy in Bajorans. Why hadn’t he realized that before?

Tora Naprem is pregnant. Tora Naprem is pregnant and Doctor Damar knows. Doctor Damar, who has probably just saved Julian’s life.

Does Dukat know? Is Tora’s child his? The father can’t be Bajoran. Today wasn’t the first time Julian witnessed one of Tora’s bouts of sneezing. That was at Dukat’s Union Day Celebration, ninety-six days ago, and Bajoran pregnancies are short; if Tora was already sneezing ninety-six days ago and she was carrying a Bajoran child she would be almost ready to deliver by now, yet she isn’t even showing.

What would the political consequences be if it became known that Dukat’s mistress was pregnant with his child? What would happen to Tora, to the child themself, to Doctor Damar? If Garak knew, would he care? Or would he seize the opportunity to damage or even destroy Dukat, regardless any other consequences?

Julian does not want to withhold knowledge from Garak – especially since Garak was so helpful in providing Julian with the information he needed to extract himself from the predicament he had found himself in earlier today – but he thinks it might be better to keep this particular piece of knowledge to himself, at least until he has a clearer understanding of what it really means, and what harm it might do.

When he returns to his quarters, he sends his Cardassian friend a short, coded message:

_You were right. CD suffers from Ri’var’s syndrome. ND sympathetic and extremely helpful, unlikely to talk._

_I am alright –J_

  
  


Three days later, Tora Naprem vanishes from Terok Nor, and no one – not even Dukat, not even _Garak_ with all of the resources he has at his disposal – seems to have the slightest idea where she might have gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve enjoyed the Exile!Julian fanfic trope since the ‘90s (I think the first story I read that used it was a Gabrielle Lawson story called ‘The Exile’). I’m sure fandom has influenced this story more than I know. One thing I specifically wanted to mention here is that Tora Naprem’s children potentially being exploited in political machinations – and Julian having to keep that particular secret - was an idea I first came across in ‘Exile’ by thehoyden, so this chapter owes a debt to that story. It's one of my favourite DS9 stories of all time. If you haven’t read it, I recommend doing so right now! I you _have_ read it, I recommend reading it again :)
> 
> My take on Cardassian physiology is influenced by Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology by tinsnip - so widely used in fanon, and of course brilliantly done.
> 
> Ri’var's syndrome is sort of named after W.H.R Rivers, as this chapter is thematically inspired by Pat Barker’s Regeneration trilogy.


	3. The Things we Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian, Garak and Niala make choices with far reaching consequences for both Cardassia and Bajor. At a Federation starbase on the Cardassian frontier, an intelligence operative makes a proposal to a disillusioned scientist.

“I need you to do something for me,” Garak tells Julian one night three months after Tora Naprem vanishes. 

The expression on his face is uncharacteristically grim. It’s the middle of the night on Terok Nor, and while Garak likes to challenge Julian in all sorts of innovative ways, he’s usually considerate of the fact that Julian’s time on the run from Starfleet gave him more training in coping with sleep deprivation than anyone could ever need.

Julian wonders if it’s the middle of the night wherever Garak is as well. His friend only ever gives him a vague impression of where he goes and what he does when he’s not on the station, but the extent to which their conversations have focused on politics in recent weeks has given him the impression that Garak is in Cardassia City. 

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” Julian remarks, curling his bare feet up beneath him in his overlarge Cardassian desk chair and tucking them under the hem of his robe.

“Dukat has been granted authority to use any means he sees fit to put down the uprising in Dakhur,” Garak says gravely.

“What?” Julian leans forward in his chair, bracing one hand on the edge of the comm panel, “but Re’gal says the assembly is set to negotiate a deal with the lowlanders and Dakhur city. He says if Cardassia offers greater autonomy and more resources in exchange for renewed cooperation, support for the resistance among the civilian population will decrease and the Shakar will be driven back to the hills.”

“While I’ve always admired your friend’s political foresight, I’ve had my doubts about his influence,” is Garak’s sober reply. “In this instance, I fear he’s overestimated it himself.”

Garak and Re’gal are both advocates of reasonableness and restraint when it comes to Cardassia’s dealings with Bajor. What Julian finds interesting is that neither of them seems to care all that much about the Bajoran people themselves. Re’gal is a genuine progressive; he thinks cooperation and friendship with other cultures will help Cardassian society advance. Julian has heard him called a xenophile (a word which carries the same connotations in Kardasi as the word ‘dogfucker’ might in Federation Standard), but the term doesn’t quite fit. Re’gal regards other cultures with a certain curiosity and admiration but he’s still firmly of the opinion that Cardassians are, on the whole, the superior race. 

Garak, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to value cooperation with other civilizations at all. He loves the idea of Cardassia as deeply as Julian loves the idea of the Federation. His tacit support for withdrawal from Bajor stems from the divisions the occupation is causing among his own people, and his belief that relinquishing control over the unruly, despoiled little world will renew Cardassia’s strength and unity.

“I don’t know what Dukat will do,” Garak continues, “or when he will act, but he’s required to notify the sector’s civilian heads of mission before he makes a move. I need you to stay close to Legate Re’gal for the next few days. He won’t be happy when he finds out Dukat’s won the latest round of their little power struggle, and his behaviour might give us some indication of what to expect.”

“You don’t know?” Julian asks, surprised.

“I’m not omniscient,” Garak replies a little waspishly. “Central Command has closed ranks on this, Julian. My direct superiors openly supported Legate Re’gal’s position on Dakhur, and now Central Command has decided to flex its muscles by shutting my organization out of this. ”

Garak has mentioned ‘his organization’s’ lack of high level assets on Terok Nor in the past. Julian only ever half believed it, assuming there were other operatives on the station, perhaps even assigned to watch him. Now he begins to wonder if Garak might be telling the truth…

“Should I talk to him about it?” he asks.

“No,” Garak says firmly. “Just keep him company. He’s been away from Terok Nor a great deal recently; I expect he’ll be eager to spend time with you.”

No wonder Garak is unhappy. Although he seems to be on reasonable terms with Legate Re’gal, he tends to discourage Julian from treating his relationship with the old man as anything more than an ongoing casual flirtation. 

Julian finds something comforting in Garak’s solicitousness. He doesn’t necessarily trust it; he’s been objectified and dehumanized all his life, by his parents, by Starfleet, by the smugglers and pirates and slavers he lived with while he was on the run, and now by Re’gal. He knows Garak regards him as a valuable intelligence asset, and he’s aware that Garak finds him attractive, but even though the Cardassian makes him feel more human than he’s ever felt before in his life, he’s not quite ready to believe that Garak really cares for him. 

It’s a nice thought though, and sometimes he gives himself over to it, let’s himself imagine that the bond between the two of them is real. If nothing else it helps him fall asleep at night.

It’s another two days before Dukat comes to speak with Re’gal. Julian is with the Legate in his quarters, seated on a cushion at the foot of the couch where Re’gal is reclining in his pyjamas and a flamboyantly purple quilted bathrobe. Julian himself is dressed in a set of slate grey silk pyjamas. The decadent nightwear isn’t particularly to his taste, but it suits his role as the Legate’s paramour. It’s a costume, one that helps him keep the character he plays here separate from himself.

They’re discussing – for want of a better word – literature.

Garak has been tutoring Julian in Cardassian discourse. _‘Politics, history, art… you must learn to discuss all of it with the acumen of an inquisitor, the eloquence of a poet and the sharp tongue of a Ba’atan snake if you want to hold your own among the Cardassian elite,’_ his friend had once told him.

Re’gal’s taste in literature is predictably unconventional. While Garak favours flowery Hebetian poems and mind-numbing repetitive epics, Re’gal prefers ‘lower’ forms of popular fiction including crime, mysteries, and romance (though not erotica). While Julian finds Re’gal’s recommendations considerably more readable than Garak’s, somehow his conversations with the Legate lack the intensity and excitement that characterize his discussions with his enigmatic friend.

“I concede your point,” Re’gal is telling Julian. “Though few Terran works fulfil all of the criteria for an Enigma Tale, I suppose _Murder on the Orient Express_ technically…”

The door to the Legate’s quarters opens without warning. Dukat hasn’t even bothered with the comm panel, simply using his command level access codes to enter without an invitation. He’s flanked by the newly promoted Glinn Damar and a man – an alien – belonging to a species Julian doesn’t recognize.

“Legate Re’gal,” Dukat says coldly in greeting. 

“How dare you barge into my private quarters,” Re’gal snaps as he rises to his feet.

“I have the right to move around this on this station as I see fit, Legate,” the Gul says. The emphasis he puts on Re’gal’s higher ranking title is mocking, and while it’s technically true that as Terok Nor’s commander Dukat can go wherever he damn well likes, to barge into a high ranking official’s quarters like this is highly insulting. 

Dukat’s gaze flickers downward towards Julian, his nostrils flaring as he takes in his presence. “Leave, human,” he says.

Julian rises smoothly, ready to comply, but Re’gal catches him by the elbow. “Stay,” he says calmly, before turning to look at the alien, his gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. “So this is the shapeshifter,” he says, “how curious. I don’t suppose you’d care to show me a transformation? Only I’ve been hearing stories about you for years – since you were first exhibited at the Bajoran Institute for Science.”

“Odo isn’t here to provide entertainment for you, Re’gal,” says Dukat. “He’s working for me, as an investigator.”

“Ah, yes” says Re’gal, “trying to crack ‘The Case of the Missing Mistress’. How _is_ that going?”

“That’s none of your concern,” says Dukat. “I’m here on classified state business, Re’gal, and I don’t have time for idle gossip; send your human away now or I’ll have him removed by force.” 

“Wait in the bedroom,” Re’gal tells Julian.

“Re’gal…” Dukat begins, but the Legate keeps talking over him.

“Dukat, surely you of all people know how wretched it feels to sleep alone when you’re accustomed to having someone warm in bed beside you? I’m still happily under the illusion that a beautiful creature is in love with me; I‘m sure he’ll run off too, one day, but why not take pity on me and let me enjoy him while I can?”

“There’s no evidence that Tora Naprem left the station of her own free will…” Damar begins, but Dukat silences him with a raised hand.

“Enough,” he says. “Damar, don't let this oaf bait you into a quarrel, its exactly what he wants. Odo, you wanted the opportunity to question the human; why don't you escort him back to his own quarters?”

If Dukat’s here to discuss what Julian thinks he’s here to discuss, there’s no chance he’ll allow Julian to stay, but if he can find a reason to linger in the corridor directly outside Re’gal’s quarters, he might be able to hear some of what they’re saying.

“I don’t need _him_ to take me anywhere,” he says haughtily, picking up the bag he’s stowed his clothing in with one hand and his boots in the other, “though if he's as fed up of being discussed as though he isn’t both present and sentient as I am, he’s welcome to keep me company while you two snipe at each other like a pair of old women.”

He shoulders his way past Damar and out of the room with his head held high, every inch the spoiled and willful pet.

He keeps walking until he’s about five meters from the door and then turns abruptly on his heel. As expected, Odo has followed him.

He drops the act, shoulders slumping, and smiles. “You don’t actually have to come with me, you know,” he says.

Regal and Dukat have begun to converse quietly. Even with his enhanced hearing, he can’t _quite_ make out everything they’re saying. He wonders if Odo can; he has no idea how good the shapeshifter's hearing might be.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be walking around the station alone dressed like that,” Odo points out. His voice is unexpectedly deep and harsh.

Julian sits down in the middle of the corridor.

"What are you doing?" 

"Putting my boots on," says Julian, slowly and meticulously loosening the fastenings on the aforementioned footwear. "You're not supposed to wander around the station with bare feet. It's in the health and safety policy, which Quark made me memorize after I set off the sprinkler system in his bar."

"Yes," says Odo, "I've heard about that."

“Then you'll know I’m quite capable of looking after myself,” Julian says pointedly, pulling his left boot on.

“That may be so,” says Odo, “but Thrax doesn’t think Dukat will take it well if you put any more of his officers out of commission.”

_“… need to pull all of your personnel out of the surrounding provinces as a precaution,” _Julian hears Dukat say firmly.__

____

____

“So you’ve discussed me with Thrax? In relation to your ‘investigation’ no doubt. Am I a suspect, detective?”

“Detective?”

 _“… can’t seriously mean to do this to one of Bajor’s most productive farming regions,”_ Re’gal sounds extremely agitated. _“You’ll cause a famine that will last for generations. Surely something less extreme would….”_

“It’s all over the station that Dukat recruited you to solve the mystery of what happened to Tora Naprem,” Julian explains, starting on his right boot. “That sounds like detective work to me.”

“I suppose you're right,” Odo says grudgingly. “Your not a suspect but… I wondered if you might be able to give me some insight into what her life on Terok Nor must have been like?”

“I wish I could help you,” Julian says politely, “but I barely knew her; I only arrived on the station three months before she disappeared.”

 _“… will set relations with Bajor back a generation,”_ Re’gal is shouting now. Odo frowns slightly and glances at the wall, but doesn't say anything. 

Julian wriggles his toes and begins removing his right boot.

“What are you doing _now?_ ” Odo asks, incredulous.

“I think there’s something in my shoe,” Julian explains. “Did the Bajorans _make_ you?”

“Make me?” 

“Re’gal said you were exhibited at the Bajoran Institute for Science?”

_“…have you given even the slightest thought to what the dissident movement on Cardassia will make of it when they here we’ve used biogenic weapons to poison the soils of an entire province…”_

Odo harumphs, “what a ridiculous notion. I wasn’t made, I was found.”

“Oh,” says Julian, inexplicably disappointed. He tips his boot upside down, and the data rod he’d slipped inside it before putting it on topples out.

He picks it up and offers it to Odo. “Here,” he says. “This is for you. A ‘housewarming present’”

“What is it?”

“A Terran crime novel,” Julian tells him, beginning to pull the boot back on. “Hercule Poirot, the famous detective, must investigate the murder of Ratchett - a truly evil man with countless enemies – on a snowbound train. Aside from Poirot, there are twelve men and women aboard; all of them have a connection to Ratchett, and all of them have a motive.”

“It seems rather suspicious to me that a man would board a train with no less than twelve individuals who might want to kill him,” Odo remarks.

_"...have until twenty-two hundred hours tomorrow to evacuate all personnel..."_

Julian carefully tucks the wide legs of his pajama bottoms into the tops of his boots. “Welcome to Terok Nor, Detective,” he says. “Gul Dukat is lucky to have you in his service.”

“I don’t _serve_ Gul Dukat,” Odo almost growls.

“No?” says Julian, getting to his feet.

“I serve justice."

“Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you here,” says Julian. “Come on, then, let’s go. I’ll tell you everything I can remember about Tora Naprem on the way.”

  
  
  
  
  


He sends a short message to Garak as soon as he's back in his own quarters, and recieves a reply advising him to expect Garak on Terok Nor in person that evening. He sleeps soundly for three hours and forty seven minutes, showers, meditates, eats breakfast, comms Doctor Damar and slogs his way through two more chapters of _The Neverending Sacrifice_. Then, for the rest of the morning, he has company...

  
  
  
  
  


Julian turns his cards over and grins at Quark. “There,” he says triumphantly, “Royal Fizzbin.”

Quark sighs with exaggerated frustration. “No, no, no,” he says. “That’s not a Royal Fizzbin.”

“You called a Royal Fizzbin with the exact same set of cards not ten minutes ago!”

From his position perched on Quark’s knees, Nog lets out a delighted cackle, though the sound is muffled by the soft toy bear he’s hugging against his chest. Julian pretends not to notice the reaction, studying his cards with grave concentration, but he’s delighted to see the playful argument is giving Nog something to smile about. 

“Ten minutes ago, it was Tuesday morning,” says Quark. “Now, it’s Tuesday afternoon. On Tuesday afternoons, the values of the cards are inverted. So to get a Royal Fizzbin you’d need an ace, a two, a three, a four and a five.”

“Quark, we’re fifteen point nine-six-three lightyears away from the nearest outpost that even acknowledges the concept of Tuesdays.”

“Ah, but it is Tuesday there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Julian admits, “but I still think this game is nonsense. If you’d just let me read the rules…”

“I already told you, I can’t. When I visited Sigma Iotia II I had to sign a waiver promising I wouldn’t divulge the secrets of their culture to outsiders. I couldn’t possibly break my word. Now,” he looks down at his nephew, giving the boy’s shoulders a gentle squeeze, “it’s our turn. Which cards do you think we should play?”

He holds his cards up for Nog to inspect. Nog studies them thoughtfully, chewing on one of Kukalaka’s ears with his pointy little canines. Julian wishes the Ferengi would be a bit gentler with his old friend but doesn’t have the heart to say anything that might spoil his carefree mood. 

It’s been three months since Quark’s brother and nephew arrived on Terok Nor, and Julian’s quarters are one of the few places they’ve been able to bring Nog without inducing a panic attack. 

Julian watches Quark smooth a protective hand over the top of the boy’s head. Nog wriggles and begins to point to the cards he wants Quark to play. “Look at that,” says Quark, “An _Imperial_ Fizzbin. Do you know what the odds of that are?”

Julian leans forward “The odds of drawing that particular combination of cards at any given time are six hundred and forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and thirty-nine to one. If the combination is only considered to be an Imperial Fizzbin on Tuesday afternoons…”

The sound of the door chime cuts him off. Quark looks nervously up at Julian as he gets to his feet. 

Here we go, Julian thinks. He’s come up with a plan to help Nog overcome his phobia. Admittedly it’s a plan with a built in risk or two, but Quark and Rom are out of ideas, and raising a child with a pathological fear of Cardassians on a Cardassian space station is becoming highly impractical for both of them. 

Julian shrugs, as if to tell his friend there’s nothing for it but to try, and presses the comm panel to open the door, revealing his second favourite Cardassian.

“You missed your check-up,” says Doctor Damar. “Didn’t I warn you I’d hunt you down if you ever did that?”

Behind Julian, Nog wraps his arms around his uncle’s neck and buries his face in the shoulder of his jacket.

Julian holds up his hands in submission. “You did,” he admits, “though you didn’t mention you’d bring back up.”

The Doctor is holding the hand of a child who has her large, lively blue eyes and her husband’s stubborn mouth and chin.

“My youngest, Gevil,” she explains, smoothing her palm along the back of the child’s head. “We were going to have lunch together, but I told them I had to track down a wayward patient first. Do you have five minutes? I’d like to see how the scars are healing.”

“I have company,” Julian tells her (though of course she already knows).

“Mister Quark,” the Doctor says politely. “I sampled the new Kressari menu in your restaurant last week; the place has an excellent reputation for drinking and gambling, but I hadn’t realised you’re also a first-rate cook.”

“Feel free to put the word out,” Quark replies, “I’m always trying to broaden my clientele. If you’d like, Doctor, I could watch your, ah, child while you check up on our friend here?”

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Julian asks the doctor as the two of them retreat to his small fresher room, leaving Gevil alone with the two Ferengi.

“They should be,” she assures him. “Gevil tends to make friends easily; they’re more of a handful than my other three combined, but they’re the only one that didn’t inherit my husband’s brooding disposition. You might not believe this – living here I sometimes forget it myself - but we Cardassians can be quite sociable.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Julain says as he unfastens his shirt. “Perhaps I just bring out the best in you?”

“I’m not sure Glinn Letok would agree,” the doctor tells him as he pulls the garment off completely and spreads his arms wide.

“So what do you think?” he asks. 

“You tell me,” she replies. “How’s the sensation in the nipples?”

“Good,” he says confidently, and then realises how that might be interpreted, “I mean, there’s a good amount of sensation, not that the sensation feels good.”

“Are you saying that the sensation doesn’t feel good?”

“No! I mean, I can still feel touch and temperature as well as I could before the surgery so, you know, well done you.”

“How about pain?” she presses, “erogenous sensation?”

“What makes you think I’ve checked?”

She crosses her arms and leans back against the wash basin.

“Fine. Erogenous sensation, yes. The higher dosage of testosterone has been, er, effective, so again, well done you. How about running a dermal regenerator over the scars?”

“Are they causing you discomfort?”

“No… I’m just impatient to see what I’ll look like when I’m finished, I suppose.”

“I’d like you to wait two more weeks, then,” she advises him. “Allowing your skin to heal on its own will help it retain elasticity.”

Julian sighs, “fair enough,” he says, reaching for his shirt and slipping his arms into the sleeves. “Thank you for coming to see me, doctor,” he tells her as he works on the fastenings. 

He has one more thing to say to her, and if he’s misjudged her character even slightly, it will likely be the death of him.

“I know you’re incredibly busy, and with your husband leading the preparations for the coming offensive against Dakhur I’m sure your home is every bit as hectic as work. I suppose at least you won’t have to worry about him getting hurt tonight; a province-wide biogenic attack sounds much safer for those involved than a troop invasion.”

She stares at him, shocked, as he pulls the ends of his unruly hair out from beneath his shirt collar.

“I hope it wasn’t indiscreet of me to mention it,” he adds, “only it’s a burden to keep such devastating knowledge to yourself, and I took you at your word when you told me you and I could confide in one another.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re risking by telling me this?” she asks him.

“Only my life,” he says frankly. “I don’t have a hell of a lot else to lose.”

  
  
  
  
  


“This is a passenger announcement,” a voice – speaking clipped, precise Federation standard - announces over spaceport’s com system. “Passengers traveling on the shuttle _Freycinet_ bound for Starbase 310, calling at Trill, Klaestron, Farius, New Sydney, Kotaki, Kressari and Starbase 310, you are advised that your departure has been delayed. Due to the recent escalation in hostilities along the Federation-Cardassian border, we are working to re-route civilian transports in this sector for your safety and security. We estimate your shuttle will now be ready to depart in approximately four standard hours. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation.”

Keiko leans back in her seat and sighs. “It’s true what they tell you,” she says aloud to no-one in particular, “the further you travel into deep space, the more unpredictable the transport schedules get."

The Bajoran woman sitting next to her laughs mirthlessly. “Welcome to the frontier,” she says.

Keiko’s gaze falls on the pad on the woman’s lap. The screen displays a headshot of her haggard face next to the UFP’s bright blue logo; a refugee’s papers, giving her indefinite leave to remain in the sector but strictly barring her from travelling any deeper into Federation territory.

Keiko picks up her bag and heads for the space port’s municipal replimat, where she orders tea and a bowl of sansai udon and manages to find an empty table in a corner booth. One of the pleasures of travelling alone is settling down by herself in a busy room, letting her attention wander between a good book and the lives of the inhabitants of an alien place. She pulls a reading pad from her backpack, intending to while away the next few hours re-reading Octavia Butler’s _Dawn_.

“Mind if I sit here? This place is getting kind of crowded.”

She looks up, schooling her face so her annoyance at being disturbed doesn’t show. A stiff-looking human man in a grey suit is standing over her, holding a cup of milky coffee in one hand and a plate of bacon and eggs in the other. The smell of the hot, greasy food is slightly offputting, but the replimat is filling up. She’s about to say ‘yes’ when she notices he’s wearing a Starfleet com badge on his jacket and a phaser on one hip.

“Commander Wendell Greer, Starfleet Intelligence,” he introduces himself, sliding into the booth opposite her despite the fact that she hasn’t given him any indication he’s welcome. “Don’t be alarmed by the phaser, Doctor Ishikawa. They’re standard issue this close to the frontier. A sign of the times we live in, I’m afraid. You’re headed for Valo III, aren’t you? Best get used to the sight of armed officers. Disruptor rifles are standard issue for Cardassian military personnel.”

He uses his knife and fork to fold a rasher of bacon into three and slathers it with egg yolk. Some of it drips off of his fork and onto the surface of the table as he raises it to his mouth.

“Mmm,” he says, “Not bad for a municipal replicator. How are your udon? I always thought noodles and vegetables in boiled water would be a hard dish for a machine to mess up, but I swear sometimes I think the freeze dried version you get in Starfleet field rations actually taste better.”

Keiko reaches for her backpack, intending to find a new place to sit. After everything she’s been through over the past eighteen months, she has nothing to say to Starfleet Intelligence.

“I take it you’re still sore about _Operation Werewolf?”_ says Greer, seeming to know exactly what she’s thinking. “It’s unfortunate that innocent people got caught up in all that.”

“My mother is ninety years old,” Keiko tells him quietly. “All her life she’s only ever used natural medicines. Do you know how many hypos she’s taking to manage her anxiety now?”

“Is that a trick question, Doctor Ishikawa?” Greer asks, “A test, perhaps, to see if your family remains under surveillance? I’m aware your mother is currently a ‘guest’ of the Vulcan science academy, that her stay there was arranged by Professor Nisreen Ansari Bashir, and that she hasn't left the grounds since her arrival there two months ago.”

“You’re still watching her.”

Greer bends another piece of bacon onto the end of his fork, seemingly oblivious to the cold intensity of the glare Keiko fixes on him as he enjoys his food.

“Starfleet Intelligence is watching Nisreen Bashir, Doctor,” he says once he’s done chewing. “I doubt that there would be any new information in your mother’s file if it wasn’t for their continued association. Personally, I don’t think spying on a couple of stubborn old women is the best use of resources, but then I was opposed to _Werewolf_ in its entirety. When I lodged a formal protest against it with my superiors I found myself demoted to running agents along the Cardassian border, and I’ve been stuck out here ever since. It’s in this capacity that I received your file. I have to tell you, seeing you here makes me feel a little vindicated. I warned my superiors _Werewolf_ would drive some of the best and brightest minds in the Federation away from Starfleet, and look; here you are.”

Keiko pushes her food to one side, no longer hungry, and picks up her tea. “Here I am,” she agrees, raising her cup in an ironic toast to her new life.

A year ago, Keiko had been an award-winning scientist and head of the plant biology lab on the USS Galaxy, Starfleet’s new prototype exploration cruiser and the pride of the fleet. Then, one of her research papers – ‘CRISPr in Terraforming – How Selective Genome Editing can Create more Liveable Worlds’ – had landed on the desk of Vice Admiral April Winterkorn, head of the Starfleet intelligence taskforce dedicated to _‘Operation Werewolf’_ – a campaign to identify and isolate individuals complicit in illegal genetic engineering.

Genome editing had been an integral part of Keiko’s work since she was a grad student, and filling out the ridiculous amount of paperwork required for every tiny step of every single experiment had become a dreary part of her everyday reality. Keiko is nothing if not meticulous in all things; she knows the Federation’s compliance framework for genetic research inside out, and always submitted all of the required documentation on time, with all of the ‘i’s dotted and all of the ‘t’s crossed.

Winterkorn, however, had felt that Keiko’s work challenged the boundaries of what the Federation considered legal and ethical. Once her work had come under scrutiny, it was only a matter of time before things got personal. It was remarkable, wasn’t it, that Keiko had earned her first Ph.D. at the age of twenty? That she had been part of a Stamets Prize nominated team at twenty-four, had been appointed head of a science facility aboard Starfleet’s most advanced exploration vessel at twenty-seven? Then, as if it wasn’t enough to take everything Keiko had ever achieved and use it as ‘evidence’ to denounce her as a fraud and a criminal, they’d dragged her mother into it. Naoko Ishikawa had been sixty when her daughter was conceived, apparently without the use of assistive reproductive technology. What were the chances that an abnormally late-in-life ‘natural’ conception would relate in the birth of a daughter who was not only a genius but also a staunch advocate in favour of legalising the wider application of selective genome editing in nature?

“If it wasn’t for Nisreen Bashir, I might still be living under house arrest on Earth,” she tells Greer. “That woman knows her way around Federation law.”

“She’s a clever and tenacious woman who’s dedicated the last eighteen months to running the Federation Judiciary Council and the Judge Advocate General’s office ragged,” says Greer.

“Ever think you might have pissed off the wrong woman when you tried to abduct her granddaughter?”

Greer smiles wanly. “As I said, professor, I have nothing to do with _Werewolf. Though having seen some of her press conferences I have to say if I were her son I think I might secretly be praying for a long custodial sentence – I’d take prison over having to face her wrath any day.”_

__

Keiko finds herself returning his weak smile, “You know if there was one person in that entire fiasco I never felt a shred of sympathy for, it was Richard Bashir,” she says. “For weeks after I was arrested, I hated the girl - Jules – for running. I thought that if she’d just stayed and faced the consequences of what she’d done then the whole business would have ended there. If she hadn’t escaped from Starfleet security in Khartoum, if it hadn’t all been so public, if that poor woman hadn’t died… the public hysteria, the absurd security theatre, the media fearmongering… it would have ended before it ever really had the chance to begin. Now, though, I’m not so sure. Have you ever asked yourself about the name, ‘Werewolf?’ What it actually means?”

“A Werewolf is a creature originating from medieval European mythology,” says Greer, humouring her. “On the surface, it seems as human as you or I, but it has a secret, monstrous nature that reveals itself in the light of the full moon. The admittedly limited history of genetically augmented humans tells us that they are much the same; that our hubristic attempts to enhance our own species will always result in the creation of malicious, volatile creatures with terrible powers and abilities; monsters wearing human skin.”

“Very evocative,” Keiko says dryly. “You know, when I first heard the name, it made me think about a werewolf in a book I read when I was a little girl. This werewolf was kind, clever, compassionate, eager to be liked… but he lived in a society where werewolves were hated and feared. They’re discriminated against, banned from holding jobs, denied basic human rights because they’re seen as less than human. Maybe that’s what it’s really like to be a genetically enhanced child growing up in the Federation? Imagine being so fundamentally altered without your consent, and then being forced to spend the rest of your life lying to the world about what you are – what was done to you - because if the world found out they would condemn you as a monster without even giving you a chance to show them that you’re not. We don’t know that the children being taken into custody across Federation space are monsters, Mr. Greer, yet Starfleet is doing everything it can to reinforce the idea that they are. I just can’t figure out why.”

Greer finishes his breakfast and sets his cutlery down carefully on his plate. He leans back in his chair and takes a large swig of his coffee. “The stories we tell our children are designed to teach them our values and principals,” he says eventually, “but you know, doctor, one of my favourite aspects of the work you’re referencing is that it also invites the reader to consider the philosophy that there are times when it is necessary to sacrifice those principals for ‘The Greater Good’.”

“That’s not how I would interpret it,” says Keiko.

“No,” says Greer. “I didn’t imagine that it would be. After all, you’re taking a ‘principled stand’ by resigning your prestigious, well-funded research position so that the Federation will no longer be the beneficiary of your brilliance. It says in your file you’ve signed up to join the Kelpian relief mission in the Valo system?”

“The Kelpians are supporting Bajoran refugees in the camps there to grow their own food,” she explains. “Small-scale terraforming, underground farming…”

“… selective genome editing?”

“I’m sure my file is clear about my specialities, Mr Greer.”

“You know why the Cardassians allow the Kelpians to render aid to the Bajorans, Professor? It’s because they have a policy of providing aid without speaking out about what they see, no matter the scale of atrocities and crimes. They call it silent diplomacy. I call it moral cowardice. Do you understand that if you join their relief mission you’ll be subject to their laws? I would have thought that since you’re such a principled woman, you might find them a little constricting.”

“The Federation doesn’t need the Kelpians to tell us what’s happening in the Bajoran refugee camps,” Keiko argues. “You and I have both heard the testimonies. Nine billion federation citizens have viewed Opaka Sulan’s Rakantha address alone...”

“You’re right,” says Greer, “we don’t need someone to tell us what’s happening in the camps.” He leans forward across the table, looking intently at Keiko. “We do, however, need someone to tell us what’s happening on Bajor.”

Beside her elbow, Keiko’s pad chirrups, and a new file appears on the dashboard.

“One of the Bajoran provinces – Dakhur – has been in open rebellion against the Cardassion Union for several weeks now,” Greer continues. “Starfleet Intelligence would like to support its people’s efforts to secure their ongoing freedom. The biggest problem they’re facing is food security and as you’ve pointed out, your file is very clear about your specialities. I’ve taken the liberty of transferring a full briefing to your datapad.”

Keiko reaches for the pad and begins to read the file, quickly becoming absorbed in the challenges facing Dakhur’s farmers. There’s an extensive cave network in the mountains there, with access to uncontaminated fresh water. So what if the Cardassians are poisoning the soil? It’s the twenty-fourth century; there are plenty of ways to cultivate food without it…

She almost forgets that Greer is still there with her. When she finally looks up at him he offers her a smile that almost looks sincere, and pushes a fresh cup of tea across the table towards her.

“What’s the catch?” she asks. “Do I have to make reports to you?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” he tells her, “but I’ve given you the access codes to a secure comm channel; should you wish to contact me, that’s your way of doing so. The other catch, doctor, is that once you’re in, I’ll only be able to offer you the most informal assistance. My resources in Cardassian space are extremely limited.”

She shakes her head, “How do you even get people into Cardassian space?” she wants to know. “The border’s closed, and they won’t issue visas to Federation Citizens.”

“The files I’ve transmitted to your pad include an Orion ID and citizenship papers, as well as a Cardassian Business visa and the access codes for a bank account that holds a meaningful amount of latinum. Are you familiar with the planet Cestus III?”

Keiko wonders what the hell that has to do with anything. “It’s on the edge of the far side of the Federation… It’d take you three months to get there from here.”

“It’s on the edge alright,” says Greer, “The Federation has a colony on the planet’s western continent, while the eastern one was settled by the Gorn. There’s a Cestan shipping business called _Ithemba Interstellar Freights_ with investors from both sides of the planet. Thanks to a loophole in Interstellar law, _Ithemba’s_ ships can fly the Gorn flag rather than the Federation one. It means they can do business in places where the Federation aren’t usually welcome.”

“Places like Cardassia?”

“Exactly. _Ithemba_ has a contract with the Cardassian government to ship mining equipment from New Sydney to Terok Nor, the military command post orbiting Bajor. One of their ships, the _Aksum_ , is due to depart New Sydney in seven days. To reach the Bajoran surface, you’ll need a permit signed by the Prefect of Bajor or one of the senior resource ministers… or you’ll need to find someone who’ll smuggle you to the surface. One of my sources suggested asking the proprietor of an establishment called, ah ‘Quarks, Bar, Grill, Gaming House and Holosuite Arcade.”

“He certainly has his bases covered there,” Keiko remarks. “So… do I have to give you an answer now?”

“No,” says Greer. “You have until your shuttle stops at New Sydney to decide… though I admit I’d be surprised if you declined.”

“What’s giving me away?” she asks.

He laughs, “Everything,” he says. “You might want to work on that between here and Terok Nor, doctor. Cardassians, in my experience, are almost as good at smelling lies as they are at telling them.”

  
  
  
  
  


Garak sits cross-legged on a cushion on the floor.

This evening their lessons have brought them to one of Earth’s tropical rainforests. The air is pleasantly warm, as it is throughout Terok Nor, but thanks to the holosuite’s advanced atmospheric controls it’s also gloriously humid. 

It’s strange, in this setting, to think that they are on a space station, orbiting a planet where an entire province is at this very moment being carpet bombed with chemicals that will prevent food from being grown for generations.

They are seated in an open-air pavilion. The wind in the trees, the song of Terran leaf-hoppers, and the burble of a fast-flowing river are soothing, and the ticking of the antique Bajoran metronome Garak has set on the floor in front of him blends in with the native sounds, becoming part of a serene rhythm. It’s dark outside. There is light from the moon and the stars, and from the luminous indigo sphere floating in the air in front of Julian.

The human’s lithe body is balanced one of the more strenuous forms belonging to the human ascetic discipline called ‘yoga’. His hands and forearms are flat on the floor, palms splayed, bearing the weight of his inverted and peculiarly contorted body. His elbows are bent, and his biceps and shoulders form a strong, upright line. His chest, back, and hips are arched to form a rather alarming bow shape - Garak finds his own spinal-ridge tingling in protest at the mere thought of being forced into such an unnatural position - and his legs are pressed together, knees bent so that the soles of his feet rest atop his own head. His neck is arched so that his chin is pointed forwards, towards the sphere.

 _“The only way I know how to make my brain go quiet is to find things that I can really concentrate on…”_ Julian had snapped at Garak in the midst of a quarrel over his disregard for the practice of meditation – the very foundation of Cardassian mind-training – the day before he had rather notoriously lost his temper and thrashed three of Dukat’s men in a bar fight. Garak hopes he’s finding the physically demanding pose, together with the mental puzzle of the Altonian brain teaser and the physiological challenge of keeping his heart rate synched to the metronome, to be worthy of his concentration.

From his position seated ‘behind’ Julian, he cannot see his young friend’s face, but he does have an interesting view of his body. He’s wearing a cotton t-shirt, but his inverted position has caused the garment to slip and bunch around his armpits. It exposes his vulnerable belly, his sharp hipbones and prominent ribs, and his small, dark brown nipples as well as the twin scars that run beneath them.

He looks healthier than when they met, Garak decides; he’d had a gaunt, delicate look about him then, but the doctor has adjusted his hormone treatments and seems to have persuaded him to start eating enough to properly fuel his hyper-efficient metabolism. It’s put a little flesh on his bones, although most of it is lean muscle; the boy seems woefully incapable of storing fat, no matter how much he eats.

He’s also clearly much more comfortable in his own skin. Surgery and hormone treatments aside, Garak thinks that having friends again after a year of fending for himself in rather trying circumstances is helping. A trio of failed Ferengi, an idealistic doctor with a failing marriage and an Obsidian Order agent who might stab him in the back at any moment (but won’t), living in a brutal and unforgiving military installation; not exactly a stable and healthy living environment by most standards, but still less toxic than the home Julian grew up in (or the one Garak grew up in for that matter). He’s less anxious than he was when he and Garak met, less defensive. He still has a child’s playfulness, and an audacious courage that will no doubt continue to win him friends and enemies alike, but he’s more confident, calmer and more grounded, a step further along the road from being a scrappy runaway towards being the remarkable, formidable man Garak knows he will become one day.

Between the scars on his chest, Julian is wearing a thumbnail-sized heart monitor. The readings are linked to Garak’s wrist communicator, which tells him that Julian’s heart rate is still sixty beats per minute and perfectly synchronised with the metronome. 

They should stop soon, Garak thinks. Julian has been in the position for fifteen minutes. There is sweat dripping from his shoulders and hair onto the mat. Perhaps, though, they can try one more thing…

“I’m going to reduce the speed of the metronome slowly to forty beats per minute.” He says softly.

Julian’s heartbeat follows the metronome as it slows; the two fall out of synchronicity somewhat during the transition, but as the metronome settles into its new tempo Julian’s heartbeat falls into step with it again. The sphere darkens to a deep, midnight blue as the rhythm of his theta waves changes, but its color remains perfectly solid.

Enough now, Garak decides. Julian will do himself an injury if he tries to hold the position any longer.

“Computer,” he says softly, “end programme component, ‘Altonian Brain Teaser’ and save a record of the player’s performance.”

The sphere vanishes.

“Alright, Julian. Relax, now."

Julian's shoulders are trembling with the effort of holding the position; lowering his heart rate and blood pressure have added to the strain.

Garak rises to his feet quickly and smoothly and places one hand on Julian’s belly and the other on his lower back for support. The heat of him makes Garak’s cold palms tingle, and the way his soft skin yields under Garak’s hands – he can feel the bone and muscle, the blood pumping in Julian's veins - makes him wonder at the vulnerability of the human body.

His hands take the strain off Julian’s core muscles, holding him while he straightens his legs and then lowers his feet to the floor. Once they’re firmly planted he stands up straight, swaying a little as his blood circulation returns to normal. 

Garak allows the hand he has on Julian’s back to drop and uses the palm that’s splayed across his belly to steady him against his own body.

“Sorry,” Julian croaks, leaning his weight into Garak’s chest. “Headrush. Garak, that was… that was something else,” he twists in Garak’s arms to face him. He’s taller than he was when they met, and the slightest upward tilt of his chin is all it takes to bring them eye to eye. Julian’s pupils are blown wide, turning his hazel eyes dark brown.

It’s been six months since he last held Julian. The man in his arms now feels so entirely different from the lost, scared, little thing Garak had offered comfort to that day, shaking with the relief that came with having found someone to whom he could unburden himself of his secrets, with having found an ally and a friend.

Julian settles his hands on Garak’s shoulders, the pads of his thumbs resting in the indents of first row of scales emerging from beneath his collar, and kisses him.

His lips are soft and insistent, and when Garak lets his mouth open against them he tastes like salt and blood and hope.

He bites down gently on Julian’s lower lip, trapping hot, silken flesh between his teeth and lapping at it with his tongue before pushing inside Julian’s mouth, using his longer, more dexterous tongue to dominate the kiss. He slides the hand that rests on Julian’s lower back down, allowing his fingertips to brush the curve of Julian’s rear through his shorts, and then tightens his grip to pull the human against him. Julian makes a pleased noise and grinds his body upwards, rubbing against Garak’s ajan through their clothing.

If Julian had offered him this six months ago he would have taken everything he could, would have had him naked and squirming in his lap within moments, would have let Julian guide his hands on his beautiful body to show him what he wanted, would have fucked him so thoroughly he wouldn’t have been able to speak or move or even think afterwards.

Only Julian hadn’t offered it then; instead, he’d danced around Garak’s offer of a mentor-protégé bond and all of the security it would offer him and rather than taking affront at boy’s refusal to formalise their arrangement, Garak had found himself admiring his courage.

One day, Garak tells himself, after the universe has broken them both, remade them and broken them again, Julian Bashir will be his equal, his partner in everything. They’ll live in a house with a garden on Cardassia. They’ll play kotra in cafes and all of the young people in the neighborhood will come to watch these two formidable old men face off against each other. 

If he allows himself to fall into a sexual relationship with Julian now, though, while the human is still so young and so powerless, one day he will lose him. He knows it to be true with every fibre of his being. And so, reluctantly, he raises his free hand, presses his palm into Julian’s chest, and pushes him back until the connection between their mouths is lost.

“That was as unexpected as it was lovely,” he says calmly. “Might I ask what brought it on? Only, last time we discussed the matter you had about as much interest in sex as the average Xindi Insectoid.”

It’s ironic really, given that Julian - standing half-naked, thoroughly turned on and tentatively licking his lower lip where Garak had been sucking on it just a moment ago - might just be the most erotic thing Garak has ever seen.

“Might be the hormones,” he says, embarrassed. “I’m still getting used to the higher levels of testosterone. It makes me feel better in my body but it also makes me want…” the last word is almost a growl. Garak remembers how when they first met, Julian’s voice used to slide upwards an octave when he was upset or excited. “And the meditation… I didn’t think it could be like that, for me. You gave me that…”

Garak rolls his eyes dramatically. “As flattered as I am to be the beneficiary of both your gratitude and your raging teenaged hormones, there is one further item of business I need to discuss with you tonight and I’d like you to approach it with a clear head,” he says.

Julian laughs, “give me a minute then,” he says. “This program has an ice-cold pool outside the pavilion, meant for cooling off after a workout…”

When he returns, damp-haired and bare-foot but mercifully fully dressed, Garak removes a small cloth bag from its pocket. “Hold out your hand,” he says. “I have a gift for you.”

Julian obeys, and Garak tips the contents of the bag – two thumbnail-sized metal disks - into his palm. 

Julian stares down at the disks for a moment before looking up at Garak. “This is a cyberneural interface,” he says, shocked.

“I didn’t think you’d recognise it,” Garak admits. “I believe they’re illegal in the Federation?”

“Of course they are,” Julian replies, “They’re considered to be a form of mechanical augmentation, and the Federation doesn’t want its citizens fusing their brains with computers any more than wants them editing their DNA. There’s a thriving black market for tech like this in the hologaming community back on Earth, though.”

“I hope you won’t be disappointed to learn the one in your hand isn’t for hologaming?”

“What is it for?”

“The Orion syndicate use them to break into computer systems,” Garak tells him. “A skilled hacker can respond more quickly if they’re interfaced than if they’re using a console. Unfortunately, we Cardassians don’t tend to be as adept at this as our Orion associates.”

“It requires quick sequential thinking,” Julian says, clearly following his logic, “which doesn’t come naturally to you.”

“Or to you,” Garak points out, “but nevertheless, it’s one of your talents. It also requires the ability to evade security programs. Even the simplest computers are built to detect intruders, but a hacker who can regulate their own neural patterns well enough to control the Altonian brain teaser for twenty minutes? I’d venture that with enough practice, someone with a mind like that could interface with any computer in the galaxy and remain undetected.”

“With enough practice,” Julian repeats. “Garak, I’ve seen holofilms about these things. There are security protocols that can leave you brain damaged or dead if you get caught.”

“That’s why we’re going to start small,” Garak tells him. “The interface in your hand will only connect with devices that have a processing speed of ten gigahertz or less and that run on a closed network; pads, tricorders, communicators… nothing bigger than that. Think of it as an extension of your current meditation practice; you’ll try to retrieve information from a datapad I’ve programmed…”

“… and you’ll try to catch me?” Julian says, raising an eyebrow. “Fun.” 

Garak is about to rebuke him for his use of crude innuendo when the deck shudders beneath them, and an alert klaxon sounds. The holo-scene blinks out of existence, leaving the two of them standing in an empty suite. 

“An attack?” Julian asks.

“I have to go,” is all Garak can say in reply. “If it’s bad I’ll get you out but I’d rather not compromise you by removing you from the station if this is a drill or a minor incident. Stay safe.”

He taps his wrist communicator. “Garak to Korinas. One to beam out.”

He materialises on the bridge of a Nerok class courier orbiting Terok Nor. "Report," he says calmly as soon as the transporter beam has released him.

“A series of explosions has ripped through sections 14 through 16 of Terok Nor’s docking ring, sir,” Korinas tells him from the co-pilot’s chair. Like the rest of the ship’s crew, she’s a member of an Obsidian Order special operations cell. “Our scans show that the cargo bays in that area were being used to store a large quantity of bio-mimetic gel. We’ve also intercepted a priority communication between the CDS Preloc and Gul Dukat; Bajoran raiders have shot down three Netel Class destroyers over Dakhur and Rakantha provinces.”

Garak rests a hand on the back of her chair. “Interesting,” he says. “It appears information is still making its way from sector command to the Bajoran resistance after all…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand breathe!
> 
> This chapter was a monster to write. There were moments when I wanted to split it in two, but then I also really wanted to keep these 4 (and a bit) sections of the narrative together and bookend the chapter with scenes that focused on the Garak/Bashir dynamic. I'm truely in awe of anyone who can write novel-length fiction! 
> 
> Obviously everyone in the 24th century is still reading Harry Potter (even Sloane!). And Discovery is rocking my socks, so it gets almost as many references as TOS in this chapter :D. 'Fizzbin' is of course from 'A Piece of the Action'. Quark challenges Odo to a game in 'The Ascent' (sadly we don't actually get to see them play). 
> 
> I'm expecting to be able to post three more chapters at 3-4 week intervals this year - hopefully they stay at a managable <5000 words each. The next chapter takes place on a particularly busy night at Quark's and features all but one of the character's featured in this one, while chapter 5 is set among the Bajoran Resistance (with no Garak or Bashir.... maybe no one will read it!).
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading, commenting and kudosing. You motivate me to write more and better. The feedback I've recieved on the stories I've posted to AO3 over the past few months has made me feel really special :D. Also... if any one is interested in beta-reading future chapters, please let me know. I never manage to spot all of my own mistakes (I'm dyslexic and have adhd, which is probably why Garak and Bashir suck at sequential thinking in this story :D) and the story is getting so big that I could use some feedback on the narrative too. I'm comfortable with constructive criticism.


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